


A Broken Weathervane

by CascadianRain



Series: So Long to Devotion [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Chantry Boys, Drunk Hawke, F/M, First Kiss, Oaths & Vows, Slow Burn Six Years in the Making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CascadianRain/pseuds/CascadianRain
Summary: 9:37 DragonReturning from the Hanged Man, Hawke finds Templars waiting outside her home. Rather than face them in her inebriated state, she decides to sleep off the drinks in the Chantry, but didn’t count on finding Sebastian up late, or the truth that the dark of night spins out of them.





	A Broken Weathervane

Damn that Isabela, luring Hawke into forgetting how many drinks she’d had...and then pushing more on her. It’d been a good night though. Hawke couldn’t be _too_ mad at her friend, who’d recently returned from harassing the Antivan coast and promised to take the bitter sting out of Hawke's humor, if only for a night.

Isabela succeeded, and at least Hawke wasn’t singing on her way home, as she stumbled up the stairs from Lowtown. The higher she climbed, the less the air smelled of waste and despair. The uneven _thunk_ of Hawke’s staff hitting the stones echoed around her as she crossed the empty market. A powerful magical artifact worth over a hundred gold—now a convenient walking stick.

Hawke hauled herself up the steps and didn’t even bother to look up at the imposing Viscount’s Keep that left so many travelers gawking in the square. Hawke was already thinking of bed. Of falling face-first across the clean, plush duvet. Of sleeping in, with Chevalier taking up the entire bottom half of the bed.

Varric wanted to talk about something and was being awfully cagey about it over drinks, but thankfully that conversation was _all_ Hawke had planned for tomorrow. She’d earned her place in Hightown—she was damn well going to enjoy the lifestyle.

Deep in shadow at the top of the steps, the Estate straight ahead, Hawke froze. Something was wrong. Even through her alcohol fuzziness, it was clear something was...off.

She breathed in the cool night air to steady herself, pressing in close to the stone wall. _There_ —movement. Moonlight on steel armor. Templars. _Meredith, you naughty girl._ Hawke released a shaky breath. Six years of buddying up to Knight-Captain Cullen, doing their dirty work of rounding up and killing blood mages, and this is the thanks she gets? She never should have interfered with Orsino and Meredith’s little lovers’ spat on the steps of the Keep the other day. She’d lost her temper—told them both off in front of the crowd. Now six years of work was unraveling along with Meredith's sanity.

She needed to speak to Cullen. Get to the bottom of this.

The Champion of Kirkwall turning up dead or Tranquil would not go over well for a city on the brink of tearing itself apart. Cullen, at least, would recognize this. Not for the first time, Hawke felt like she’d stuck her finger in a crack in a dam and she was the only thing keeping it from crashing through and washing them all away.

But the Champion of Kirkwall was in no condition to deal with Templars, no matter what their intentions. Maybe they were only spying—badly—maybe they were going to haul her to the Gallows for a face-to-face with their Knight-Commander. Or maybe they only wanted to talk. They could be dissenters. There were rumours.

None of those situations would play out well with a drunk Hawke who was barely keeping upright.

 _Uggghhhh....._ So much for not doing anything tomorrow.

But that was tomorrow’s headache. And hangover.

Provided she gave these Templars the slip.

Hawke tugged the hood of her cloak up over her bright orange hair and hunched forward, gripping her staff with both hands. Affecting a shambling gait, she moved through the shadows on the edge of the courtyard, well away from her inviting front door.

Fenris’s stolen mansion wasn’t far. He’d let her crash in one of the mouldering old beds with only a smidgen of silent judgment. Guilt worked wonders for keeping grumpy Fenrises quiet. Might even open a bottle of Tevinter red if— _Maker’s balls!_ A shadow shifted down the passage leading up to Fenris’s place. Shouldn’t be a surprise—everyone knew who the Champion’s companions were. The Templars were—against all odds—not entirely stupid.

Fenris was out. Lowtown was out. In her current state, she’d never make it through the Coterie’s Darktown to the passage up to the Estate cellar back entrance. The Blooming Rose wasn’t exactly covert and she'd have to pass the group camped outside her door. And she might bump into some recruits within the Rose.

The swill of the Hanged Man was flicking at her thoughts, sending them spinning so that she could barely grasp them.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder. A Templar was watching her from the passage to Fenris's mansion, but they hadn’t made a move. Yet.

As though guided by divine intervention, Hawke’s gaze lifted to the Chantry, presiding over Hightown like an imperious grandmother. A slow, mischievous grin spread over her face. It was perfect. No one would ever suspect it.

Keeping to the shadows as best she could, Hawke hobbled to the Chantry steps. Half-way up and feeling no closer to the massive doors, the world-weary beggarwoman affectation was no longer as much of an act as when it started. Her breath wheezed and she stumbled over the steps, stubbornly refusing to check for a Templar tail.

At the top of the steps, she dragged herself to the heavy doors and hauled one open, tumbling inside. She fell back against the door, and once the echoing _thump_ died away, Charlie was sealed within the Chantry’s silence. Her own rapid heartbeat and ragged breathing was deafening in her ears. Her hood fell back as she gazed up at the golden statue of Andraste.

 _Welcome home, child,_ she seemed to say.

At the statue’s feet, a figure straightened up from kneeling in prayer.

Hawke didn’t trust herself to leave the support of the doors. The Chantry’s foyer was as good a place as any to sleep, wasn’t it?

The figure descended the stairs, purposeful steps filling the Chantry. Too brisk for Grand Cleric Elthina—thank the Maker for that, Hawke couldn’t deal with a lecture right now. The Sisters were all afraid of her, so whoever this was shouldn’t be too much trouble. She knew the sound of that gait, but didn’t dare hope...

She sagged lower, her eyelids fighting her attempts to keep them open. The last two drinks were crashing headlong into her exhaustion.

“Hawke?” The smooth brogue slammed into Hawke like a ball of lightning, stopping her heart and lifting the hairs on her arms. _Oh Maker._

“Sebastian?” She took two steps toward him before she began to stumble. Quick as an arrow, he caught her, supporting her weight against his deliciously warm body. Hawke’s staff clattered against the stones as she threw her arms around his neck.

“What are you— _oh_.” The reek of the Hanged Man must’ve hit him.

“Templars at my house. Can I sleep here?”

“I—”

Hawke pressed her face into the heat of Sebastian’s neck, falling into his comforting scent. He wasn’t wearing his armor and she could feel the hard muscles of his archer’s body through his Brother’s robes, modified into a tunic and trousers. _Maker_ , _please_ _let_ _the world stop spinning so fast_.

Hawke sagged and Sebastian nearly lost his hold on her. He eased them both down and held her in his lap, one arm around her shoulders to hold her up. Hawke shut her eyes against the dizzying spin of the braziers above them. Felt callused fingers brush the strands of hair from her brow.

“Did the Templars force you into a game of Wicked Grace with shots as the forfeiture?” The humour in Sebastian’s voice bloomed warmth through Hawke. She hid her smile in his robes as she snuggled closer against him, losing herself in his clean, musky smell.

“No, that was Isabela.”

A low chuckle rumbled through him. “I see. Well, I think I can find a place for you for the night. And in the morning, you and I will go down to the Gallows and find out what these Templars want.”

Hawke’s smile melted away. She looked up at him, the vaulted Chantry ceiling high above him. His bright blue eyes shining in the moonlit hall were crinkled with his gentle smile. She adored that smile. Hawke lifted a hand to his cheek, rough with a day of stubble. She’d never have dared if she were sober. Theirs was a careful distance. Every time one of them nearly closed it, the other would nervously laugh it off.

But Sebastian wasn’t laughing now. He gazed down at her with such soft affection that she _must_ have passed out and this was some strange, wish-fulfillment dream.

Hawke’s eyebrows scrunched together in sudden worry. “Sebastian...my magic doesn’t bother you, does it? After...after everything we’ve been through?” There’d always been that niggle of doubt—despite all of their years fighting side by side, of quiet dinners and easy company. He was the Choir Boy after all, sharing the same ideology, if not training, as the Templars. Even Knight-Captain Cullen had said _—to her face_ —that he didn't believe mages were people like him. A lifetime of guarding her secret had taught her...shame. She loved her magic, but the cost was living as an outcast disguised to belong.

Sebastian’s lips parted in surprise. “Of course not. Hawke, your magic is _beautiful_ . It protects those who cannot defend themselves, it shines a light in the shadows. You saved my life with it. More than once. So, no, _mo cridhe_ , it doesn’t bother me in the least.”

His words melted her insides like chocolate—all sweet and velvety, and no longer able to raise her heavy limbs. She smiled as darkness closed in. “Good. Because I love you.” Then her eyes slid shut and her hand fell away.

An arm snaked under her knees and the hand on her shoulder gripped tight. Sebastian grunted as he lifted Hawke. She’d found her refuge for the night. Safe in Sebastian’s arms, right where she belonged. His easy gait down the length of the Chantry lulled Hawke into oblivion.

 

\+ + +

 

Sebastian held Charlie firm against him, her head nestled against his shoulder. His steps were slow, drawing out the time that he could hold her close. If the Templars outside her door were real—not an excuse to stumble into the Chantry late at night and not shadows conjured into monsters by drink—then a dangerous shift was underway. But it was a menace that lurked outside and he’d leave it where it was.

His eyes were drawn more to her face than watching his step on the worn and uneven flagstones. He’d seen her without the streak of warpaint plenty of times now, and he was always amazed at how its absence brought out her freckles. What was unfamiliar to him was how peaceful and unburdened Charlie looked as she slept. It stripped the years from her, earned through grief and trial rather than a counting of seasons.

They were only a couple of years apart, but their lives mirrored each other in so many painful ways. Was he as deceptively young as he slept?

_Good. Because I love you._

Sebastian’s heart beat high in his chest. She didn’t mean it. She couldn’t mean it. _Forget it, Sebastian_. Love wasn’t allowed to show its face in this city under siege. Elthina risked her life to stay with her flock and all of the innocent people caught up in the unrest. The rebellion would need to be quelled and the Chantry's hold re-established before he could leave with a clean conscience. Someday, _someday_ , he’d be free to reach his hand out to Charlie, and if she took it, he’d whisk her away to Starkhaven, where they could finally be free.

He carried her to his modest cell, tucked away in a corner of the upper level. A forgotten nook for the not-Brother, not-Prince. He shut the door with his foot, careful not to jostle Charlie. He laid her gently on his bed, grateful that she didn’t wear armor when out drinking with Isabela, even though that might be advisable.

The cold of the night slithered in where Charlie’s heat had seeped through Sebastian’s robes. An icy tide filling in the space between them.

In another life, they’d have been a perfect match: a Starkhaven prince and the head of one of Kirkwall’s most influential families. But Champions and exiles don’t have the luxury of courting.

He turned to leave and Charlie’s hand reached out, lacing her fingers in his.

“Don’t go...” she murmured, eyes still closed.

Sebastian froze, scarcely daring to breathe. “Charlie?”

Her grip tightened, tugged him closer.

Sebastian dropped to the edge of his bed, the old mattress creaking under their combined weight. He leaned over Charlie, his hands pressing into the bed to either side of her head. Her blue eyes flickered open and she smiled up at him sleepily.

“Don’t go.”

“Charlotte, you’re drunk. I can’t trust a single thing you say.” He forced a smile into his words. It was true, after all.

“It’s the only time I can be honest.” She was serious for all of a moment, sending Sebastian’s heart racing, and then she dissolved into giggles that shook the bed. “Honest but not thinking straight. Or very straight indeed, because when I’m not drunk I think myself into tangles on why I can’t seduce you away from Andraste.”

Sebastian lowered himself until his forearms were resting on the bed, his hands clasped together above Hawke’s head in silent prayer. His chestnut fringe brushed her forehead. “I don’t know what to do, Charlie. Elthina needs me, Starkhaven needs me...and the more I breathe you in, the more I know that _I_ need _you_.”

Charlie cupped his cheek and this time he allowed himself to lean into her touch. Her caress traced to his neck, and down to his chest, gently keeping him at a distance. “Don’t break your vows for me.”

“Which is it?” His whisper came out husky. “Don’t go or don’t break my vows?”

“Can’t you do both? Lie here with me and sleep. Nights are the worst, too long and quiet.” The ache and hurt in her voice was all too familiar in recent months.

“My vows would be shattered a thousand times over in my mind, but I would watch over you every night that you needed me.” He leaned his weight into her hand, testing his resolve—and hers. _Orchards in autumn, the promise of freedom._ “Andraste’s mercy,” he murmured under his breath.

Charlie turned her face away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. Maybe the Templars have gone—” She began to rise. The broken restraint was mending. If he didn't do something, this moment would be lost forever. Sebastian’s mouth found hers and heat ignited.

He needed her, and hadn't known how desperately until he tasted her. Charlie moaned, a high, little thing, and Sebastian swallowed it, finding its echo rumbling in his chest.

When her tongue found his, her back arched, pushing her tight against him. He didn’t dare move from his perch on the bed’s edge. Maker, but desire for her burned in him. Electric fire raced through his veins, set alight by the banishment of their careful lie.

Charlie’s arm slid around his neck, fingers digging deep into his thick hair. When they brushed his ear, it was his turn to moan, breaking their kiss as pleasure shivered down his spine.

“Oh Charlotte,” he murmured as he nuzzled his nose against her ear and began to kiss her neck. Eliciting more of her breathless mewls was his new purpose—there was none greater.

As Sebastian reached her collarbone, one hand sliding down her side, Charlie gasped and pushed him upright. She clung to his robes to steady herself, her forehead against his brow, her nose against his cheek. Their breath came fast in the bare inches between their lips.

Sebastian gripped her hip, thumb kneading desperate circles into her flesh. _Let’s run. Leave Kirkwall to tear itself apart._ _W_ _e can be so much more_ _than this city will allow_ _._

The words burned in his throat; holding them back twisted pain in his chest.

“Damn it, Isabela,” Charlie said under her breath. “I’m too...I’m barely holding on... Promise me that wasn’t the last time. Promise you’ll remember this in the morning.”

She asked a vow of him. One that required no contemplation. Elthina accused him of being impulsive and blown about like a weathervane, but he knew with blazing certainty that he would never forswear this vow. He would cherish the taste of her lips forever.

“I promise.”


End file.
